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I love to harass my mother, and anyone else I’m living with, about the long, curling hairs I find around the apartment, because I know that they’re not mine. I haven’t had any hair – anywhere – since October 2013. And now that the New York Times has reported that the "full 1970s look" is back, I’m once again out of step. Though I am in fashion according to the NYC parks and rec department, with their ‘go bald’ posters. I’ve gotten so used to not having hair,that the wraps I wear on my head now feel like mine – I arrange the ends of them absent-mindedly. My eyebrows are faint but still there. I had full caterpillars over my eyes as a teenager, until I went to Europe and learned about waxing. Now, spa days are not on the calendar for some time to come.

That phrase ‘some time’ is one that I drop casually, but consider deep down as kind of a white lie. I don’t know if I have ‘some time.’ The calendar is short. When I confess to my doctors that I am afraid, first of dropping dead on the sidewalk from leukemia, then of fading away in a hospital bed from an infection, they reassure me that “it doesn’t work like that.” They don’t tell me how it does work, but instead keep me on a ‘bridge therapy,’ to get me safely to the start of my clinical trial.

I know that competitive athletes picture themselves winning, down to the last detail. I’ve been afraid to do this mental exercise around the trial. Maybe I’m too much of a superstitious Boston sports fan, or maybe I’m afraid to imagine my life as a whole – too high stakes. It’s the data – my labs and vital signs each day – and the efficacy of the trial that will chart the course for the future, not my perfect visualizations and plans.

But then there are little moments, when I let myself dream, without getting too carried away, of what it could feel like to win. In an ongoing trial very similar to mine, the patients had very good results. In those patients, the blasts, those immature white blood cells that take over as leukemia, did something remarkable. They became normal cells again. People went into remission.

I hold tight to this fantasy. I think about little green shoots, like crocuses, poking up through the dark soil, and imagine that that must be what it will feel like, to have nasty, deadly cells transformed into healthy ones. My appetite will come back. My immune system will recover, so I can go out in public without a mask and gloves. My platelets will creep up to the normal range, so that I can get some exercise without fear of bruising. I can trade my ‘air hugs’ (don’t get too close, please) for real ones. I can kiss someone if I want to.

I try not to go too far, in this fantasy. I need to leave room for what might really happen. But still. I can imagine the shadow leaving my psyche, and joy and vitality replacing it. And I pretend that all my hair will grow back – I don’t go so far as to picture having to deal with it, like going to the waxing lady or something – but I imagine having my little pixie haircut back. It will be a pleasure to leave a hair or two lying around the apartment just to annoy my mom, or whomever it is I’m living with.

Rebecca Ruquist is a three-time cancer survivor from Boston who trained as an academic and likes to walk around European cities. She is currently working on a project related to Health Tourism, about traveling overseas for medical care, and “First in Man” clinical trials. Rebecca’s parents were macrobiotic when she was growing up: she wonders if all that tofu, brown rice and seaweed caused her health problems as an adult. A yoga and meditation practitioner, Rebecca is interested in the cues the body sends the mind about health and disease, and whether or not we are able to listen to them. You can also follow Rebecca on Twitter and Facebook.

Last Updated:3/31/2014

Important: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and not Everyday Health. See More

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